Unmistakable (11 page)

The waitress watches us skeptically as we slide into a booth. I half-expect her to tell us to go next door, but Holden bestows one of his comfort-whiskey smiles on her and she visibly melts. Add another female notch to Dr. Delicious’s belt of bimbos.

“Two cups of coffee, please,” he says.

She’s too flustered to say anything back, but she does give me the evil eye as she walks back to the counter. Spit coffee is a virtual certainty.

My head aches from Izzy’s intricate up do, so I lean my head back against the cracked vinyl and run my fingers through my hair, yanking at the bobby pins and not giving a damn about the fact that my head now resembles a ratty birds’ nest. Holden gives me a curious look and shakes his head, as if he’s not entirely certain how we ended up here. Hell, I don’t know how we ended up here. I give him my best attempt at a smile, and he reciprocates before pulling his phone from his pocket.

It’s one of those Nokias that went out of fashion in the late nineties. Not even a flip phone. I snicker.

“Is my phone funny to you?” He sounds more than a little defensive.

I reach into my bag and pull out my phone, which is identical to his. I’m rewarded with a smile that spreads slowly from his mouth to the rest of his face.

“Yeah, I guess it is funny.” I grin. “A couple of dinosaurs.”

My refusal to get the latest technology is a vestigial act of teenage rebellion. My father, who orders the latest models straight from the manufacturers as soon as they’re released in Japan, sends me a new phone every couple of months. I promptly return all of them, never bothering to remove the plastic. It’s a silly ritual, one that I look forward to more than I want to admit.

“I would have taken you for an iPhone girl,” he says casually.

I’m trying my best to refrain from any more snarky comments, so I slide the phone back into my purse. Before I can change the subject, he asks, smoothly, “What’s your friend’s name and what is she wearing?”

“Izzy. She’s wearing a white dress, and she’s probably on the dance floor. Puerto Rican. Statuesque. One of your friends is probably hitting on her as we speak.”

“Izzy. White dress. Dance floor. She’s hot. Don’t hit on her,” he mutters. “Does that work?”

“Sure. I guess.”

He leans back into the booth and studies me intently before his lips curve into another smile. “Stella, do you want to tell me what brings us to this esteemed establishment at this time of night? Or are we going to play twenty questions? I will warn you that I’m a pretty fair questioner.”

“No, thank you.” He’s still smiling. Great. I’ve now determined that he experiences exactly two emotions—amusement and anger. I like anger better, so I provoke. “I’m sure this must be a novel experience for you.”

His grin deepens. “I’ll take the bait. What novel experience are you referring to?”

“Meeting a female who isn’t interested in answering your twenty questions.”

He releases a silken laugh, but his eyes don’t yield. Damn, he’s good. I only get a reprieve from his relentless gaze when the waitress arrives with the coffee.

He lifts the sugar canister and pours an insane amount into his cup.

"How can you drink that?” I ask, incredulous. “Seriously? You’re not diabetic yet?”

“Good genes,” he replies cheerfully, taking a long sip of the coffee before giving me a wicked smile. “Delicious. And thank you for your concern about my health.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Judgmental. Interesting,” he says, raising one eyebrow.

He’s right. This man, who I don’t even know, probably thinks I’m some basket case and potentially a serial killer, and I’m giving him a hard time about his condiment selection? I make a face and take a gulp of my coffee to hide my shame.

The waitress hovers. “How does that taste?”

I glance down into the cup. Oh, yeah—there’s definitely spit in there. “Delicious. If we need anything else, we’ll be sure to let you know.”

When Holden snorts, she skulks away.

“The latest member of your fan club,” I say, giving my cup a suspicious glance.

“It appears as if we won’t be playing twenty questions, then,” he says, which earns him a small smirk. He doesn’t address the fan club comment, which is a smart move—I had another barb in the go position. “I’ll take that as a final no. But you do get my gratitude for providing me with an excuse to leave the party. That club wasn’t exactly my scene.”

I take in his beautifully tailored clothes with a quick glance. I don’t know if I believe him, exactly, but I decide not to antagonize him any further. God knows I’ve already done enough damage. There’s just something about him that makes me want to ring his bell.

He twirls the spoon and clinks it against his mug, suddenly looking like a mischievous kid instead of a fully-grown college professor. Out of nowhere, the reason why teasing him is entirely irresistible flies into my head. It’s accompanied by a brief, but undeniable, flash of pain.

He’s Jack, plus another five years. There’s an uncanny resemblance—in looks, in manner, in speech, even in the way they stir their coffee. They wear the same expression behind their eyes, one that finds everyone and everything in the world to be endlessly amusing.

I squeeze the cup so tightly that I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter in my hand. Focus on the differences, Stella. Amber instead of green. Honey blond instead of gold.

“I received a solemn promise that there would not be any students at that party,” Holden says absent-mindedly, twirling the spoon around in his coffee again.

I’ve known enough shrinks to recognize a needling tactic when I see one, but I’m grateful for the distraction. Besides, I can handle this. Deceptive honesty has never failed me before.

“Izzy and I made a bet with her boyfriend and some of the guys he knows that we could get ourselves into one of the Phillips parties. There was a thousand bucks in it for each of us if we could get in and bring back photographic evidence.”

“A sucker bet,” he murmurs. “Those guys are idiots.”

“A nice profit,” I counter.

“Not exactly worth the price, I think,” he adds, his face a bland mask. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, you were running away from something that obviously caused you a lot of pain. If I had to guess, I would say that it has something to do with the same matter that brought you into my office earlier today.”

For the first time in my life, deceptive honesty doesn’t seem to be working, and I think I’ve had enough firsts for the night. I am out of here.

“Just a bad night.” I try to keep my voice as even as possible, but my hand shakes when I pull out a ten-dollar bill. “Thanks for the protection. And the coffee. Good luck with your first semester at Greenview. Watch out for the freshmen. They’ll eat you alive if they think there’s any chance that you’ll jeopardize their future by giving them less than an A.”

“You should at least finish your coffee,” he says calmly. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Yes, you did.”

He looks surprised for a moment, but then his laughter, clear as a bell, bubbles over. “Yeah, I guess I did. A function of my profession. I’ve spent too much time doing research and not enough time with clients lately. I used to be better at covering up the prying. I promise, no more digging into your secrets. Stay. You seem to be enjoying that coffee. It would be a shame to waste it.”

I take another sip and eye him warily. He’s earned a few minutes of my time, and possibly an explanation, even if it’s not anything close to the truth. Plus, he’s right. I do need the coffee, if only to confront the imminent barrage of Izzy’s questions.

“Research?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.

“I spent the first few years of my Ph.D. program studying to be a clinician, not a researcher.” He looks wistful for a second before rearranging his face into a calm façade. “I thought I wanted to get down into the trenches. I wasn’t much good at that kind of work, though.”

The subtle change in his face, so fleeting that it would take another personality chameleon to notice it, piques my curiosity. It’s the first time, besides the white knight comment, that I’ve really managed to get under his skin.

“Why not?”

“I had a tendency to pry.” He grins at me, but I see immediately that he’s just throwing my tricks back at me. Deceptive honesty. Half-truths. “Bad habits die hard, and I have a whole stable full of them, in addition to a propensity to cheer for the underdog. Unfortunately, I still root for the Cal Bears.”

He’s unintentionally given me a great deal of information, and I can’t contain my own curiosity—it’s my turn to pry. “You were at Berkeley? Clinical, then you moved to social/personality? That switch probably didn’t go over well with your advisor.”

His expression doesn’t change, but the bulging veins in his forearm give him away. “How would you know that? Have you been checking up on me?”

“Lucky guess.”

It isn’t actually. I probably know the ins and outs of the Berkeley psych department better than he does. I could give him a quick rundown of office locations, course offerings, and even inane departmental politics, if I were really pressed.

“I very much doubt that, Stella.”

“I very much doubt that the reason you left the clinical side was due to your tendency to pry. At least 90% of shrinks are hopeless, gossipy fools, so it can’t be that. You left out the important details. So, I think we’re probably even, on the half-truth front, at least.”

This time he doesn’t bother to hide his surprise. Still, he doesn’t miss a beat. “I think you’re probably ahead in the count. I would guess that you haven’t told me a full truth yet. However, you could make it up to me by telling me why the thought of being in Luke Dixon’s lab section makes you willing to give up your shot at the most prestigious scholarship in the country.”

I can’t pretend like the mention of Luke’s name didn’t affect me at all, so plausible deniability is off the table. I’ll have to stick with half-truths.

“Luke and I used to know each other.”

“An ex-boyfriend?” The curiosity springs out of him like he’s a little kid on his first trip to Disney World. Despite myself, I smile.

But I do start to understand why clinical psych might not have been right for him. The best shrinks, the 10%, are detached, impersonal, with the ability to turn their humanity on and off like a light switch. It requires a certain strength of will, and just the right mix of empathy and superciliousness. Holden can’t quite leave the questions unanswered.

“No,” I say firmly.

“He was passionately in love with you, and you broke his heart?”

The ludicrousness. I almost laugh.

“No.”

“A friend, then.”

That’s the closest he’s come, but it’s still not right. I can’t seem to muster more than a half-truth, even in my own head. Luke was my surrogate brother, white knight, tormentor, confidante, protector, and the bane of my existence for most of my life. He was, and is, an enduring, and always present, source of heartache. But he’s also more than that, so much more that I’ll never be able to put it into words. It’s pointless to try.

“A friend,” I repeat, softly. “Yes. I suppose so.”

Holden looks guilty, like he’s dug too far and looked too long and uncovered something that he didn’t want to find.

“Then it wouldn’t be appropriate for you to take the course with him,” he says quickly.

“But I thought you said...”

“Rules were made to be broken. I’m not sure if there’s anything I can do about changing the instructor of record, but I might be able to devise some kind of independent study with one of my colleagues—you can help out with research in exchange for lab science credit.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I refuse to do anything with rats.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of human subjects research. I think that would suit you. And I don’t think there’s a need for you to attend my lectures. If I had to guess from your extremely perceptive dismantling of the intricacies of inter-department politics at Berkeley, you’re already well-versed in psych-speak.”

He’s correct, of course, but I don’t offer any further information. There’s at least a decent chance that he knows my mother, even though she doesn’t teach classes anymore. If he does know her, he already has all of the information he needs to psychoanalyze me.

After Jack died, the entire Berkeley community rallied around my family. Holden would have been a baby grad student at the time, but I would bet my life on the fact that he would remember that particular story. My life story.

I realize that he’s waiting for some kind of answer to his proposal. I nod and give him a small smile.

“That’s what I thought,” he says. “I’ll talk to some people and let you know what I can manage. I’ll try my best, but no promises.”

“I’d really appreciate that.”

I’ve never been good with silence, and it expands between us, filling the air with awkwardness. I gather my bag from the booth. When he moves to stand up, I hold my hand out.

“I’ll be fine. Really.”

“I want to drop by my office anyway. You’re on my way.”

I look at him dubiously, but he doesn’t waver. I quickly ascertain, probably correctly, that there are very few arguments where he comes out on the losing side.

“Fine. You have to let me pay for your coffee, then.”

“It hurts my manly pride to let you do that, but I suppose it’s fair. An escort service for a coffee. You might even be getting the best end of the deal.” His eyes twinkle. This time, I can’t help but smile.

“An unwanted escort service,” I mutter, under my breath.

“A sterling, gold-plated, high quality escort service,” he counters, opening the door for me.

I really need to stop the whole talking-under-my-breath thing. I’m not very good at it, and I’ve already used up most of my snarky insult reserves. Thankfully, it only takes a few more awkward, silence-filled minutes to get to Haver Hall.

He grimaces when the full measure of its ugliness comes into view. “They actually make people live here?”

“Yeah. Unfortunately.”

“Well...” He pauses, and then smiles. “Good night, Stella.”

“Good night. Thank you again for everything. I feel like I should apologize again, but...”